


To the End and Back

by froog



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with no happy ending, F/M, Gen, Modern times, Psychological Trauma, Redemption, References to Depression, References to childhood trauma, Slow Burn, Some Fluff, erik really is a ghost in this one, there is a LOT of talking, trying to understand the character of erik
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/froog/pseuds/froog
Summary: “That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation--Time.” – Samuel BeckettThe curtains have closed and the audience departed. Who is left to sing about the poor Opera Ghost when all have died? Who will roam the empty halls of the Opera Populaire and remember the horrible misfortunes of all who suffered here?Perhaps with fresh eyes, a monster can be brought to the light. Time marches on and waits for no man or ghost.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Original Character(s), Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 21





	1. Fate's Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings and thank you for reading this story. It is my first ever fic on here so all constructive criticism is welcomed! Please forgive if I make any mistakes, I am only learning!  
> please do feel free to comment anything! 
> 
> Something to understand before reading this:  
> I am building this off the events of the 2004 movie with Erik looking like Gerard Butler but acting more like Susan Kay's more sarcastic rendition.  
> There was no auction in this story. After the final lair where Christine and Raoul escape, the opera closes with Christine begging Raoul to pay off the building so that no one will find Erik. With the building left in ruin and no one allowed inside, it falls into myth and becomes a stain on the city of Paris (therefore it is not based on the still-running opera house).  
> Everyone just walks away at the end and forgets all-together about the Opera Populaire and its Phantom.  
> I am using this medium as a way to express my ideas and interpretations of Erik as a character so take that with a grain of salt.

Let it never be said that fate was a punctual and polite visitor. It was a mistress that would flutter about someone’s life, showing up one day unannounced and uninvited, leaving in its wake desolation and unfathomable change. Rude and self-entitled, fate always had a way to enter even the most mundane of people’s quiet existence. It was intruding and poignant, never once considering the opinions of those it interfered - some people rather enjoyed their stagnant nature. Destruction was fate's faithful companion - and unpredictability, its lover.

Had Joanna Cook known that today, one of the last fleetingly warm days of a French autumn, was one of those prophetic days of fate's arrival in her life, she might have done things differently. Maybe, she would have called in sick to work? Or stayed in bed just that little longer? Perhaps even refused this job entirely? Just enjoyed her simple life before it was completely turned over by the hurricane that was destiny. But foresight is a gift given only to those who had seen fate before in their households and had felt its crumbling touch. She was not so lucky.

She waited nervously, a leg bobbing up and down, impatient for her boss to finally arrive. Around her people wandered aimlessly making light conversation with others or just going about their day ignorant to the world outside their own. The hotel was bursting with light and muted comfort, had it been a little less crowded she may have enjoyed it more. Joanna had never been to France before - let alone Paris. It was nothing like the movies had depicted, no amount of media consumption could have prepared her for that first step she took off the 12-hour plane. It was as if the very air she breathed was intoxicated with a deep sense of history and art.

5 years of studying Classical arts and history had broadened Joanna’s mind to the beauty of human creation and imagination with Paris being one of the Western arts founding fathers. Every street was etched from a Parisian time gone past of wildly expressive craft with their grey stone houses and intricate metal fences; every church bathed itself in gorgeous light from stained windows. It seemed even the people carried with them that trait of beauty, with heads high and voices slurred with inherited madness. It was almost like living in a hazy, painted dream. 

Her University course required her to get experience in the field of ancient art. At the start of the year, her class was presented with the remarkable opportunity to go out into the world and get their hands dirty. Laid before them were case files of places under investigation – their job being to locate and date, as best they could, pieces of artistry worth saving. Their work would then be judged later by seasoned professionals and their master’s degrees reflected in the scores.

 _‘Beats studying,_ ’ was all Joanna could think as she sifted through the many options. A few caught her eye, but one stood proud king above them all. It was listed last as if the professors hoped no one would see it having been blind-sided by the previous choices. A job in Paris.

She had the case file even now, looking down to her lap and seeing its prominent black title staring back- The _‘Opera Populaire,’_ an old opera house.

The hotel's front door suddenly opened with the soft jingle of a bell, and a man hurried inside. He was dressed in a fine navy-blue suit, one that his naturally greying hair complemented wonderfully. He frantically searched around the foyer before spotting Joanna with her head lowered, lost in a daydream. He cleared his throat, flattened his waistcoat, and with large, confident strides, made his way over to her couch in the corner.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Cook! There you are.” The man extended a friendly hand which a startled Joanna took and stood up with. He smiled warmly. “Please forgive the wait. I was held up at the office.” He paused after giving her a firm handshake, a flicker of uneasiness passing over his face. “Er, you speak English?”

Joanna let out an airy laugh, “And a little French,” she answered in his language. “Although you must forgive me. I am a little rusty.” The man breathed a relieved sigh and his bright expression returned to his features tenfold. He gave one last shake of her hand before moving aside and guiding her outside the hotel.

“Please allow me to introduce myself,” He spoke in a heavy accent with the voice of a man who knew of his effect over others - commanding yet polite to a point. “I am Ace Carré, your supervisor while you stay here in Paris.” He led Joanna out into the busy mid-day street, seemingly unbothered by the noise and amount of people. “I pray your night in the hotel _Arrivée du Destin_ was to your liking. It is a small but decent venue.”

Joanna nodded numbly, too overcome with the sights and smells around her to offer a verbal response. Everywhere she looked there was life; street vendors making their daily living off swooning passers-by with their products, children laughing and darting between the legs of their adult counterparts, and of course, the couples obliviously engrossed in one another’s embrace, stricken helplessly with love. She would have liked nothing more but to stop and simply watch the world dance around her. She had never been in such a vibrant setting. But Carré seemed in a rush, his hand placed lightly on the small of her back as encouragement to keep his pace.

“All my contact details are on your forum, Mademoiselle Cook. Should you require anything just-”

“Please.” She interrupted him, drawing a curious eyebrow form the smartly dressed man. “Call me Joanna.” His apprehension dissolved into a generous grin.

“Ah very well. Lovely name my dear.” The two continued down the street with Carré partaking in a very one-sided conversation. He told her how grateful him and his business were to her for accepting this unusual job. Not many people were so eager to take up such a task from a building as old as the opera house. He went on to explain that the hotel’s manager had been made aware of her business here and was told to keep an eye out for her return every night. She had nothing to worry about, she needed only to focus on her work.

They took a sharp left turn and began ascending a sloping street. Joanna noticed how there became a sudden lack of people and noise – it was as if the two had turned into an alternate dimension, one of empty stillness and unaddressed silence. Even the sun hid away, dipping behind the surrounding apartment houses leaving the street to be washed in shadow. The hand on Joanna’s back faltered. Monsieur Carré’s previously vigorous walking and boisterous voice spluttered out like a dying car and instead of guiding Joanna to her destination, he leaned on her for support. From what she could see, there weren’t even people in the house’s windows. The street was just quiet.

The 10-minute walk up the road left both parties panting from the strain, although they tried their best to hide it from the other. ‘ _Oh yeah,_ ’ Joanna thought, ‘ _I’m going to suffer from this daily mountain hike.’_ As exhaustion threatened to overcome them both and turn them back, the cobblestone street gave way and flattened out into a massive courtyard. Standing atop the hill with her back to the lively world, Joanna came face to face with the subject of her study – The Opera Populaire.

Joanna had from the beginning of the year when first she had received her assignment to start researching her place of choice, developing mental profiles of what she could expect to find in her individual residence. That was easier said than done, however. No amount of Google searching or filing through yellowed, old newspapers could offer anything of interest to Joanna about her chosen destination. There was just nothing to be found on the opera house, no in-depth history on what exactly befall the building, from when it was built to now. It was like it barely even existed, having only lived in memory and as a scribbled-out name on paper.

The only thing Joanna could find was that a long-dead, rich Viscount and his wife had bought off the opera house completely and poured most of their finances into maintaining its stance, even after their deaths in the early 1920s, against the pushing of outside forces, mainly the government and other investors interested in the land. Unfortunately for the opera house, its well of money had recently run dry and the building was thrust into the care of Carré‘s company and thus her university. It was now her job to determine whether the Palais Garnier was worth protection or not – did it house precious nuggets of history and art that could possibly warrant its existence in the modern world? It certainly had the time, over 140 years to be specific, but did it have the substance?

From the complete lack of any decent information about the place, Joanna had psyched herself up to be disappointed. Perhaps it was just a pointless old house, an unremarkable small building that, at most, sat 100 people and a pathetically quaint stage. However, as she stepped into the light of the open courtyard before her, Joanna’s breath caught in her throat.

The opera house was colossal, towering over her and the surrounding buildings in its almighty glory. Bigger than anything imagined, a god amount the petty stone around it. The walls were decorated with impressive statues of Dionysian origin, bodies twisted in dance and accompanied by winged horses and, although many fell into unrecognizable disarray, they still held an air of demanded grace. The doorway stood wide like the gaping mouth of a monstrous leviathan eager to eat her up in its mysterious. Craning her head to look up made her knees want to give way and crumble underneath her. There was no way a building so outwardly fantastical could not have been known worldwide. By mere glance alone one knew this opera house meant business. Joanna could only imagine what it looked like inside.

Something struck the girl like a lightning bolt, making her pause and count her good graces. The opera house, in all its worldly beauty and triumph, was nothing more than a ghost to modern scholars. Why did no one talk about it? Why was the Garnier left to the rot of time and allowed to fade into obscurity? It seemed ridiculous to Joanna; she couldn’t help but scoff at how blind some people could be to true art. But it was not only the artists that baffled her. The building's inherent architect was, even to an untrained eye, marvelous. Why weren’t more people aware of this place? And why, even now, did people seem less than stellar to approach?

Joanna noticed how Carré had released his hold on her and had stepped to the side, turning ever so slightly as to block direct view with the building.

“Here, Mademoiselle Joanna.” He reached into his pocket and produced something with shaking hands. “A skeleton key to help with your journey inside. And I have also photocopied the only map we have available. It is lackluster at best but a starting point.” Joanna nodded, taking the keys and sliding the folded map into the folder wrapped in her arms while Carré watched on, swallowing hesitantly. There was a moment of awkward silence before stiffly Carré bowed and went to leave.

“Wait.” Joanna called after him, confusion plastered across her face. “You’re not coming in? Not even to show me around?” The man blinked a few times as if dumbstruck. He breathed in and released a weary sigh, stepping further away from the building.

“Mademoiselle, I must really be getting back to the office.” He took another step back, hands clasped in front of him in a desperately apologetic manner. “You have the map. You will be alright.” And with that he made his exit, walking down the street until he became dot against the backdrop of shadow and stone.

Joanna’s ears burned. To her, that felt like an excuse. A frantic lie through the teeth of a scared, fleeing man. What was he so scared of? And why did he seem so sorry? Because he had to leave her? Or because he regretted sending a lonely girl into the belly of the opera house? Whatever it may have been, she doubted she’d ever know the truth.

A chill wind blew through the empty courtyard and threatened to pierce Joanna to her core with its shrillness. A subsequent shiver ran down her spine and suddenly the urge to run away ignited in her stomach. There was something about this place that begged her to turn away, put foot, and disappear before something bad happened. A dark, foreboding presence stood with her at the door, bearing its fang in a vile, corrupted grin. Runaway stupid girl. Before it is too late. But as she faced the somber statues, the pale-cream bricked walls of the opera house, and the many wondrous untold mysteries of a time long gone, her fear was drowned out by her leaping heart. There was no denying her excitement.

The prospect of adventure fuelled her hand as she unlocked the front door and cracked it open. The air inside was stale and dry and she silently thanked herself for having the brains to request specialists earlier in the week to test the building for any harmful bacteria. She allowed herself a moment longer to bask in the fresh, warm sunshine before diving head-first into the dusty building.

Though there were no working artificial light sources in the room, the natural light that filtered through the broken, dirty windows high above lit the room in the most dazzling way. Stretched in front of her were sweeping staircases, a grand overlooking balcony, and the most splendid chandeliers. At the foot of each staircase, stood tall bronze statues of naked women. They greeted Joanna as she picked her way up the stairs, pleased and elated to finally be visited by a living person after all these years in the dark. She couldn’t take her eyes off them.

At the top of the balcony looking down, Joanna was filled with the vivid vision of a room bursting with golden candlelight and music. Below her danced and sang women and men, decorated in jewels and masks. An image of wild fun and untamed delight. This place must have been the highlight of anyone’s life back when it still held its crown.

This, Joanna reminisced as she pulled out the map, is what she signed up for. The promise of discovering lost treasures, dusting them, and bringing them once more into the adoring eyes of people. Humans were inherently mindful creatures, finding all breeds of art to be something that they can connect to and rejoice in festival praise. Even as the world changed and people moved faster and thought smarter, parties never dwindled. There will always be people to sing.

Upon examining the map, the size of the situation Joanna had gotten herself into finally came down on her full force. This place was much bigger than she could have ever imagined. There were rooms upon rooms, corridors that led to nowhere, and even, by the looks of the scratched-out stairs, a basement somewhere. She was just one person for Christ’s sake. How was she ever going to manage this? Alone? Demotivation wore down on her shoulders but abruptly she shook it off, dislodging the despair before it could sink its claws into her youthful heart. This was going to be an amazing experience. She just had to stay positive. And start small.

It took only but a moment to locate the heart of the opera house. Yes, she agreed. This was a fine place to set up her base of operations.

The theatre. Content with her plan moving forward, Joanna nodded to an invisible crowd. She spun around on her heels and began her voyage deeper into recesses of the building. The opera house groaned around her, happy to swallow the young girl when she was none the wiser. And from the shadows, two golden eyes watched her every move.


	2. Slowly the Train Departs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for making it to chapter 2! please pardon any and all mistakes I make in these writings - I am learning as I work. thank you again!

Work had been excruciatingly slow in the beginning. Those first few days, all of Joanna’s dedication and will had been put to the test and yielded little to nothing of value. Although the physical fruits of her labor were somewhat lacking in spectacle, Joanna still felt hopeful about the job. Perhaps that had something to do with the building itself.

While there was no way around the fact that the building still radiated a horrible, foreboding feeling - Joanna couldn’t deny that she had grown somewhat attached to the place. To her, it was like an old man sitting alone at a bar. In the corner of darkness, he grumbles about times gone by and scares away anyone who dares to get close. But give him wine and a patient ear he will whisper secrets to you - tales of horses and people who danced in dresses. If she closed her eyes, Joanna could make out that faint whisper. Calling her closer. 

By now, she had made herself at home on the stage. What a strangely glorious scene she had stumbled upon. The stage was decorated in red fabrics and had many ropes of various sizes and colors hanging in odd positions from the ceiling. In the center was a hole which, she presumed, was meant to represent a fire pit. It was as if she had walked in on a play halted mid-production. Of exactly what play it was, Joanna had no clue. A part of her always seemed on edge when she walks on stage, shouting for her to be weary for at any given moment people might flood in and demand she perform or be removed.

The most obvious and egregious sign of the possible trauma the Populaire had faced in its lifetime was the broken chandelier laying on its side to the right of the stage. When Joanna first approached it, creeping up like a spooked cat, she felt as if she was intruding on a sleeping lions’ den. This mammoth of a chandelier was huge - beyond anything she has had the pleasure to see before. Its metal rings were bent and twisted from its impact against the floor, and the glass beads of its once intricate and masterful design were scattered all around the stage floor and among the first few rows of red velvet seats. Joanna had made sure to carefully sweep the shattered glass fragments to the side to prevent future injury.

Her conclusion, based on the fire stains on the wood and seats and the gaping line that led from the middle of the domed roof to the chandeliers resting place, that during a staged performance the chandelier must have fallen and set fire to the theatre. But the absence of the fires touch on other parts of the opera house and even near the back of the stage itself, led Joanna to add that someone must have put out the fire rather quickly after its initial start thus leaving the building intact. But this revelation did not sit well with her. If the fire had been dealt with before it became a true problem, then why had the opera closed anyway? The crashing of the chandelier must have only played a small role in the eventual downfall of such a grand place – the true story must still be lying in wait somewhere else in the Populaire, biding its time for Joanna to arrive and peel backs its layers of mist.

She had also started to explore some of the other rooms labeled on the map. First was the orchestra pit which had offered her nothing but scrapes of torn music sheets. Next, were the many boxes placed high above the audience seating. All had eaten away at her faith of eventual discovery with their shortage of anything useful to her. Oddly the door to box 5 was locked when she attempted to open it. Even the skeleton key she had been given proved ineffective against the barricade. A sane person would have just left the box alone, all its predecessors had been barren of discoveries so by the laws of basic deduction, Box 5 would be no different. But Joanna was stubborn and perhaps a little bored. She squared up with the door and heaved her shoulder into it. Once. Twice. By the third time, she felt something shift. The next time she hit it, the door gave a click and swung open to reveal an unsurprising nothing. Panting Joanna stepped inside and peered over the edge. She couldn’t help but gasp at the sight.

“A perfect view!” She proclaimed to herself, taking a seat in the plush couch and leaning her head over the railing. It was as if she had climbed a mountain and now stood on clouds. The stage spread out as a beach below a cliff, every inch of itself on display from her viewpoint in Box 5. This must have been the most sought-after seat in the house. She didn’t know how long she stayed there, transfixed in a daydream about people singing and dancing in exuberant old costumes, but when Joanna finally looked down at the time of her phone, it was well into the afternoon. When the sun goes down, this building would become a maze from hell, black as the night where no light could ever escape. She had to leave before then. 

Night encourages that drunken old man to rear his most heinous head. Fairytales turn to horror stories when the sun retracts its protection. As Joanna made her exit, she swore she saw something - or someone- usher her out. Footsteps followed behind until her hand touched the door handle. 

The next day saw her walking into the opera house and heading straight for the offices. As she passed the stairwell ladies, she made it a point to stop and offer them a gentle tilt of her imaginary hat. She hoped that by showing cutesy to the operas’ guardians they in turn would allow her passage into their hidden secrets. Even if this exchange didn’t yield results, it still felt like the right thing to do to such beauties.

Joanna’s first stop was the office of a Monsieur Firmin as stated by the name printed on the door. The furniture inside, although lavish and wealthy, held nothing of importance to Joanna. Today was going to be another disappointing day. Sighing with a tarnished spirit Joanna set to work digging through the many shelves on the wall and in the maple desk. She stumbled upon something promising – a folder containing many notes and recipes of purchases and other maintenance issues. Could this be the bait to something bigger? She bagged the folder and spent the next few hours pawing through the other office rooms.

By noon Joanna had retreated to the stage, sitting down and laying before her the many letters and documents she had procured on her travels. While most were bland and unimportant looking, a few stuck out from the pile like a red rose among snow. Letters written in fantastic red and black ink on yellow paper once sealed by a red wax. The handwriting itself was childish at best, large looping letters by an unpractised hand. The contents of each letter were, what she assumed to be, conversations between past Garnier managers, practically one who had taken to calling himself ‘O.G’. ‘Original Governor’? Unlikely but a solid guess. And with no other information available on anyone who worked in the building, Joanna’s half-hearted prediction was as close as she was likely to get to the truth.

However, fate was a cunning master and presented to Joanna a note in which an explanation lay.

_My dear Firmin._

_A thousand apologies for my abrupt and sudden disappearance but after the events with Madam Daaé and our ‘Opera Ghost’, my health has taken a drastic decline. Leaving Paris was my only hope for a decent night’s sleep._

_I will send my document of consent to hand over all control to the Viscount when I have settled in Australia._

_Live well, my friend._

_Yours sincerely_

_André._

The note was written in a rushed scribble as if the sender was in a hurry to go somewhere. What caught Joanna’s eye was the word ‘Opera Ghost’. It was written in such a way as to portray a clear distaste for the name – the person who wrote it having a deep dislike for the title. It worked too well.

O.G – Opera Ghost. Were they one and the same? Joanna brought the letter closer to her face as if it would reveal some small telling detail to help further explain this alluring mystery.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when there came a bang from behind her. The silence that filled in the wake of her shrill scream, hung heavy with apprehension. The frightened girl turned to face the dark corner of the inner stage, her hands still clutching the note to her face like a makeshift shield.

At the edge of the sunlight bleeding in from the ceiling windows, was a collapsed sandbag. Her eyes strained against the darkness that near-covered the bag. Around it, a torn rope curled like a snake would its prey. The sand weight must have fallen from its place high above. That wasn’t too unreasonable to believe – everything here was over centuries old, so decay and damage was inevitable. But this assumption did little to put Joanna at ease. All this talk of ghosts and tragedies and the fact that she was helplessly alone in the stomach of a silent beast, had all started to accumulate in her head, sharpening to a fine point that made her mildly paranoid. It also didn’t help that from the darkness, two yellow eyes started.

She froze, blood turning to thick ice. ‘ _Stay back!_ ’ She wanted to curse away the apparition, send it back to whatever hole it had crawled out of. But her voice never spoke. The glowing dots glared at her, swaying ever so slightly as if breathing. She wanted desperately to flee but felt stuck under its gaze. As the tense quiet stretched into an uncomfortable length the ghost finally moved in the shadows. Out stepped a tabby cat, confidently presenting itself to her and cocking a curious head.

Joanna barely contained her laughter. This had to be some divine comedy. Whatever Gods had chosen to weave Joanna’s story were creatures of humor and really enjoyed torturing her with their incessant jokes. She was not a fan. All the stress evaporated in the heat, her arms lowered and her shoulders slumping. She sighed, rolling her head back in a relieved manner. Smiling warmly, Joanna extended a hand to the cat.

It watched her, judged if her greeting was good enough then gave itself over. Joanna stroked the cats long, striped fur, and felt reprieve smooth her beating heart. It was just a cat.

“You gave me quite the scare.” She spoke softly to the feline. It purred and pushed its head deeper into her fingers. “Are you the supposed Opera Ghost, my friend?” The cat gave no response. “Oh! Perhaps you speak only French?” She asked again in said language and again received no admission of guilt. The conversation was getting her nowhere. “Fine. Be that way. Stay if you wish but I have work to finish.” She relinquished her attention back to the many papers scattered before her and fell back into the motion of reading and categorizing them all.

The cat, in fact, did stay with her, curled happily in the last rays of an afternoon sun, and even lingered when the evening arrived. It followed her to the front door. She held it open for her new friend and the cat relished in her pampering. The two walked down the street together until they reached the corner’s bakery. It was a handsome little store, cosy and welcoming with the smell of fine bread wafting from inside. A small radio sang to itself from the store's window.

Out front worked a man in the process of packing away the earlier days’ signs and loaves of bread. Joanna assumed him the baker from the outfit he wore, an apron and hat, and marvelled in his brisk movements despite his apparent age. The man stopped when he noticed the cat. A giddy smile stretched across his old face and his eyes lit up in playful, adult joy.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur chat!” He called to the tabby who had sat before the old man, awaiting a head scratch. He obligated and fumblingly bent down. Joanna beamed at the wholesome interaction.

“Is he yours, Monsieur?” She asked. The baker straightened and smiled at her with the same intensity he had the cat.

“Sadly no.” He answered, his voice as friendly as his face. “He is the king of the street, you see. Protector to all and pet to no single household.” The cat in question puffed his chest as if understanding and approving of the baker’s praise. Joanna scoffed at the feline’s pretentiousness – who knew an animal could be such a diva. She gave the baker a final goodbye nod and turned to walk away.

“Pardon me, mademoiselle!” The baker skirted out from behind the display shelf and over to her. “If you wouldn’t mind my asking...?” He hesitated, pausing as to allow her a chance to consider his question. Joanna lightly shook her head and faced him head-on, offering her undivided attention. He smiled again but something seemed off. He choked, swallowed, and tried once more to form the words he desperately wanted to say. “I have seen you before, walking past every day and evening. Do you work somewhere around here?” He gestured to the street going up behind her.

“Oh, yes I do! Apologies for not introducing myself earlier.” She sticks her hand out for the man to take. “I am a University student of Art and History conservation and I have been assigned a job at the old Opera house on the hill.” At her words, the man’s face went whiter than a sheet of the purest paper. His smile and overall approachable aura drained away, leaving only a husk of a thing behind. He looked so much older now. No longer a man of joy and small comforts but replaced by a frightened animal. Joanna saw flashes of Monsieur Carré. These two men had, in common, a deep-rooted connection - undiagnosed fear.

He suddenly grabbed Joanna’s hand, trembling as he brought it to his chest. “Please, mademoiselle. Do not go back there. That place is evil!” At her sceptical expression, the baker knew his fear was not hitting home. “Please.” He tried again, tightening his hold on her hand. He felt cold. “That opera house is evil. A terrible ghost stays there, haunting every hall and room. He will hurt you. Please, listen to me.” It was not necessarily the words that ignited sparks of worry in Joanna’s heart, but rather the utter sincerity of his tone. So genuine was his fear that it reeked.

“Oh, come now Monsieur,” Joanna eased the baker off her and glided away. “There is no such thing as ghosts or evil places.” - Even if she did feel something _odd_ in the opera house.

“No! No. It is real! He is real!” The man reached for her again, his voice flickering out into a whisper like a struggling candle in a storm. It was as if he thought someone was listening in on their conversation, critical and unkindly to idle gossip. “I have heard him. At night, he plays his music. Loud, violent music. Hateful. A terrible sound from an even more terrible mind. He will hurt you, mademoiselle, if he finds you there.” His rant edges off into deafening silence.

Joanna allowed her mind to wander for a moment; that was now 2 accounts that spoke of an Opera ghost, 3 if she included Monsieur André‘s farewell letter. There was no way that this was all some momentary coincidence where people in modern times still lived under the rule of a ghost that terrorized over 140 years prior. Perhaps there was the slightest, most minuscule, tiniest chance that it may be all true.

As the waters raged too high as to drown her, Joanna calmed them and rocked back into a scientific mindset.

“Thank you, Monsieur, for your concern.” Joanna patted the man's quivering hands and gave him her best reassuring smile. “But it is my job and I must see it through to the end.” She saw something break inside his eyes. He didn’t get through to her.

“At least find a way to appease him.” Was the baker’s final rebuttal, grasping at straws. “Distract him so that he will not turn his attention on you.” What an interesting idea. Distract and please the myth that has been causing this poor man’s restless nights. Should she give in to superstition? Or not fall in line with panicky old men? At this point, Joanna did not know what to believe. In the still air that twirled between her and the pleading baker, the world held its breath. An answer needed to be found. Through the chorus of conflicting voices in her head, Joanna heard the radio still softly playing. She turned to face it. Finally, the answer blossomed.

“Where could I get a radio like that?” The man followed her gaze and contemplated her request. When he deemed it satisfactory, he faced her again, a gleam of his past cheerfulness returning. Yes, maybe that could work.

Even the cat, who had patiently watched their dispute, seemed in agreement with the humans. What an interesting idea indeed.


	3. Addressing the Ghost in the Room

Joanna had everything she needed; a radio, a USB drive with hand-picked music, and a bat-shit crazy idea. The radio she had acquired was nothing too special, just a simple two-speaker that took a CD, connected to the local radio station, and, luckily enough, housed a USB port. That made finding appropriate music much easier.

The radio had been pedestaled on one of the prop spiral staircases to the right of the stage, one speaker facing Joanna and the other towards the Populaire’s abyss. She stood before it, having just placed fresh batteries inside and antsy to give it a test drive.

In her hand, she held the hard work of her previous late night. To her, it was the best classical music playlist ever to grace the halls of the opera house. If there was a ghost, he was going to enjoy these. She had added only the essentials; Tchaikovsky’s _Piano Concerto No. 1_ , Mozart’s _Rondo Alla Turca_ and _Hungarian Dance No.5,_ and others of which Joanna could hardly remember the names of. There was one that, even with her poor experience in the field of classical music, she knew and heard much of. Everyone did. _Claire De Lune_ or ‘that one really sad piano song’ as its other title. She looked forward to hearing that one the most.

She exhaled through her nose and clapped her hands together. She raised them to her forehead and closed her eyes. It must have looked like she was attempting to pray to a shrine. After breathing away her concerns she opened her eyes and spoke. It was to no one in particular, more of a personal comfort than a public call-out. To put to rest those worming worries the baker, who apparently is named Monsieur Lafitte, had set loose in Joanna’s head. There was no ghost. It was all just superstition. An overgrown wives’ tale.

But… what if…

“Greetings!” Joanna tried in English but then decided to switch to French – what were the chances a ghost spoke English in a French opera house? Little to none. “Bonjour Monsieur Fantôme! Forgive my intrusion but I come bearing music!” She held the USB up for an imaginary crowd to inspect – she felt like a Greek gladiator presenting himself before the Emperor and polis. Would she be judged fairly and given the option to live? Or would she be killed off without even a second thought? The building groaned around her, confirming that she had its attention and commanding her to continue. “Take this as a sign of good faith,” she slides the drive into the porter and turns the radio on. “Allow me passage into your secrets and I will bring more. I only wish to help.” Pressing play let the smooth piano of Beethoven’s _Moonlight Sonata,_ to echo around the great stage.

Sure, it sounded like a whistle in a tin can and the bass was all but non-existent, but the song still carried. Pleasure could be found regardless of its imperfection. Besides, it was still music - that life-giving substance. The Opera ghost must be grateful to her for finally bringing it home, back to its palace of origin. Joanna faced the cat who had followed her inside again. She smiled.

“You think he’d like it?” The cat licked its paw unconcerned with the going-on's of poor, pitiful humans. She took it as a good sign. “Oh yeah. He’d love it.”

Time slugged onwards. The sun rose and weaned and Joanna’s eyes grew heavy from strain and by midday she had just about given up. This opera house was one hard clam to crack open with its pearl nowhere in sight. She was getting desperate, Please, just give her something useful.

Days of pent up frustration exploded from her mouth in a heartbroken moan as she lay down on the stage surrounded by the piles of documents she had meticulously sorted through. She was hitting an impossibly tough brick wall. 

Behind her, the radio made another round of the playlist it had been repeating all day. A tiresome day with no bank for her buck meant that her attention focused She had memorized all the pieces. Hell, at this point she could probably play the very instruments! The piano’s and strings, as harmonious and beautiful as they were, were starting to rub her ears raw. She needed to find more muses.

To the left of her, atop a nest of those unnerving Opera Ghost letters, was the cat. He had left from time to time presumably in the search for food, but strangely always returned to Joanna. He must have approved of her company. She rolled over to face her friend, leaning her head on her hands and fondly gazing at the feline as he licked himself.

“Do you have a name, Monsieur chat?” Her voice was soft yet filled the entire theatre with its lone performance. The cat gave no indication of hearing her request despite it being the only noise in the entire world. She leaned closer. “Can I give you one then?” A jolt of hesitation in between strokes of his tongue told Joanna that he was listening, albeit unenthusiastically.

“You are very wise-looking. And fluffy. And tabby. You remind me of a famous character from an old poetry book.” Joanna smiled as images from the story in question filled her head. “How does ‘Old Deuteronomy’ sound to you?” The cat froze dead at the word ‘old’. Amber eyes plastered wide open and staring straight forward. He did not seem to like being referred to as ‘old’.

“Oh relax. It is a compliment! Means you are to be trusted in your wisdom!” This did not flatter nor gentle the sharpness of the comment. Disgusted, the cat promptly stood up and walked off into the darkness of the backstage, his nose purposely stuck up to the sky. Joanna called after him.

“Deuteronomy! Oh, Deut! It was a joke!” Joanna rose to follow, wiping her hands over her covered-in-dust pants. A tired yet mischievous chuckle descended out from her chest. Who could have ever guessed that the most exciting thing to happen to her today would have been her pleading after a stubborn cat? “Deuteronomy please wait! I was only kidding. It was all in good fun…”

Her voice died on her tongue, lips suddenly dry. The air around her dropped several degrees in temperature and she felt the entire opera house collapse in around her. A clawing sickness nestled into her stomach and threatened to make her vomit. At the foot of the spiral staircase on which her radio sat, was a letter. One of the very distinct Opera Ghost letters. No mistaking the yellow paper, the obnoxious size of the note, and, most blatantly, its red wax seal. She could do nothing but stare at it, watching as if it might get up and start singing.

Joanna could lie to herself; make up some grand and elaborate excuse as to why a letter was there.

 _The wind must have blown it!_ The first idea. _There is no breeze indoors_.

 _Maybe the letter had stuck itself to old Deuts long coat!_ Another attempt. _Not possible - the letter is too heavy for cat hair to carry._

Again and again, Joanna tried to logically piece together a story that would calm her racing heart. A shield to hide behind. Again and again, they all deteriorated under scrutiny. There was also the factor that she only noticed when she knelt down to pick up the letter, that the seal had not been broken. An unopened letter. From the Opera Ghost.

The paper burned in her hands and begged for her to read it. A trembling thumb eased off the lip from the body and pulled it back to reveal carbon black ink. It was the exact same handwriting as all the others, a detached part of her mind identified - too enthralled in the letter itself than to realize its malicious implications. 

_Mademoiselle,_

_A day of Beethoven and Mozart grows weary on the ear._

_Do find something else to play. My mind tires of your poor roaster._

_I remain your obedient listener,_

_O.G_

Joanna read the short note over 10 times, with each run through her eyes searched harder for any secret message hidden in the letters. This had to be some kind of practical joke - local kids playing a rather cruel prank on her. There was just no way something like this could ever happen to someone like her. She was just too ordinary.

Yet the paper remained heavy in her hands. It didn’t falter or disappear like an ill-fitting illusion. It was real. But there was no way it was the product of a misdirected joke either. Everyone Joanna had met thus far feared this place - no one would dare even enter, let alone sneak in undetected, only to leave behind a single letter. Nothing made sense. Except…

There was just no way a Ghost could be real. Especially not one from over 140 years ago. The letter mocked her. Oh, he was real alright. And he didn’t approve of your music. 

A pale, clammy hand turns the radio off with a switch, eyes never leaving the paper. Should she call the police? The Ghostbusters? Who would believe her? As panic licked at her mind, its intoxicating sickness consuming her sight with blackness, a single thought rose to the surface.

If he wanted to hurt you, Joanna. He would have done so already. A murderer is quick. He would never give a warning. Whoever this was, this self-titled Opera Ghost, at least had the cutesy to send greetings first. Even if it was rather passive-aggressive.

Firmness grew in her legs. What was she so afraid of? Obviously a ghost could try and hurt her, but he would be met with all the hell-fire she could muster. She would fight him, alright. She really had nothing to lose. A life of loneliness teaches a woman early on to fight well and live freely - momentarily shock and fear evaporates under her conditioned morality. So what if there was a ghost? She had no business with him. Her job, assigned from her university, was to try to save the Populaire from unjust destruction. And by God, she was not going to let a wailing wind chase her away. The Populaire, in all its earthly craftsmanship, deserved to be saved and loved again. People created it with affection and admiration and their hard work shall not go ignored. If Joanna is to accomplish only 1 good thing in her life it would be to see that this opera house sings once more. And no amount of, supposed, snarky ghosts could stop her from doing just that.

As she closed the letter, the fading afternoon light flooding back into her vision reminding her that she was still breathing, still alive, Joanna only said one thing.

“Could have at least said thank you.” With that, she packed up her bag and made her way back to the hotel for a well-deserved night's sleep.


	4. Storm on the Horizon

Joanna hated herself for even considering to humour the Opera ghost. But try as she might, he did have a point - she needed new music. 

She walked into the opera house with more confidence than expected, making a beeline for the stage. Waiting at the radio was Duet who blinked slowly as she approached.

“And here I thought you hated me?” The cat flicked his tail. “I have new music. Songs I have never heard before, so, here's hoping they are good.” She inserted the USB and gave Deuteronomy a cunning side-eye. He visibly exhaled. “Excited?” If he could look somehow more unimpressed, he’d be rolling his eyes. She laughed and turned on the radio.

Joanna had searched all known areas of the Populaire. Her map, now distraught with horrible black x’s and lines, had been the scribe to her journeys. All the offices were cleaned out, all seats and boxes and even some of the first-floor bathrooms had felt her hurricane. The superficial first layer of the opera house had been cleaned by her sweeping hand. All that was left was the backstage - the real meat.

A complete mystery, what lay beyond that separating red curtain on stage. The map was no longer of any use. Its knowledge did not reach that far into the building and Joanna felt dread eat at her. It would, no doubt, be an impossible labyrinth back there. Without a guide, she could get lost in the dusty twists and turns of the shadow-shrouded world. The thought of diving deeper into the gullet of the beast which had already proven its distaste to trespassers, somewhat unnerved Joanna. 

She paced the curtains' edge, her hand gliding along with the fabric as it rippled like water at her touch. Her fingers grace the edge of a split and slowly she opens it to reveal a passage. Air rushed out to meet her, indicating that somewhere in the darkness there must be another entrance. She felt blind and helpless as she tried to make out anything before her - nothing stood out against the night, instead, everything faded into itself hiding in its own remarkable abyss. Would she be taken in by that all-encompassing nothing? The void stares back, desolate and barren save for an unending blackness. Joanna contemplated her chances before retreating back to the light. If she was going to partake in such a perilous trip, she’d need a torch. She could hold off until then. 

The remainder of the day was spent with Joanna inspecting as many of the female statues as she could. She strolled around them all, a notepad and pen in her hands as she took notes on each individual. They were beautiful in themselves, not needing to be connected to the Populaire in order to be appreciated. Brisk woman with tempting bodies and attractive faces who guided and swooned men to the music of madness, muses of the gods. Dionysus favoured the sculptors who made these maenads. 

Deuteronomy did not find them interesting, however. He meandered after Joanna, falling behind as she circled the statues with her mouth agape. Eventually, he gave up altogether and regrouped back at the theatre. He could not fathom what the fuss was all about.

Joanna decided to end the day earlier than usual, mainly because she was bored and the thought of exploring the back rooms without a torch was highly off-putting. She gave Deut a goodbye scratch, switched off her radio, and made her way to the front door. Oddly, the cat did not follow.

Opening the front door to the light of outside always made her wince and shield her eyes to the glare. She was surprised today when the sky was as dark as the opera house. A storm had rolled in. She had no idea that this had even occurred, that the sky clouded over and rain washed in. The Populaire really did exist in its own universe - disjointed from everything beyond its cold, stone walls. Even more surprising was the person waiting for her. 

“M-Monsieur Carré?” Joanna mumbled as she stepped out of the building. The man, who previously had his back to the door and a hand over his hat as to prevent it from flying away in the ferocious wind, spun around at her voice. The flicker of dismay he had on his features shifted to those of a more friendly nature.

“Oh, Joanna! Thank goodness. I was just about to come in and fetch you.” She doubted that greatly.

“Uh, to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you today?” She decided not to dwell on his shameless lie. Carré moved closer to her as the rain started to fall.

“I have come to invite you to the party my company is hosting tonight! I sent an invitation through the hotel's front desk but I see that you did not receive it.” His self-indulgent chuckle fell on deaf ears. Cold steel grew heavy in her stomach. 

A party? With other people?

“Oh no. Monsieur please.” Joanna raised her hands apologetically. “I’m afraid I am in no state to attend a party this evening! You have caught me in a most unfavourable hour! I’m sorry but I must decline-”

“But Mademoiselle! Please,” Carré’s signature sneaky hand finds its hold on her back and begins to add pressure. “I do insist.” He takes a large step out from under the Populaire’s arch and guides her - forces her - to follow. Joanna's mind began to race. People? God, why would she ever want to engage in pity conversations with other people she had never even met before? Could he not tell that she was uncomfortable with this situation? She was not a child who needed to be pestered into making friends. She enjoyed the silent loneliness she had wrapped herself in. It was partly the reason why she had chosen such an isolating profession - to be alone. Dead people, at least, did not bother her with petty light-talk.

The grip Carré had on her back told Joanna that she simply could not refuse. Not to him. She felt him pulling her into a hole she did not want to fall down. Thunder boomed overhead as Joanna desperately tried to think of something to say.

“We must hurry.” Carré sensed her uneasiness and mistook it for anxieties about the storm. “This rain does not look pleasant.” Joanna resisted. Pulled back. Retracted into herself. Why could he not just leave her alone?

Suddenly, piercing through the howling wind, came soft music. Both Joanna and Carré stopped and simultaneously turned around to face the front door of the Populaire. From somewhere deep inside, the music sounded. 

“My… My radio.” In an instant, Joanna was free and quickly sprang back to the jaws of her savoir - the ghostly opera house. “Forgive me Monsieur but it appears I forgot to turn my radio off.” She offered him a clunky bow, feeling unbelievably relieved like a fly somehow escaping a spider’s sticky web. “Please do go on without me.” Carré blinked, dumbfounded.

“B-But Joanna. The party-”

“I will attend the next one! Please go on. I will be quite alright on my own.” The man was hesitant and considered trying to grab at her again. As if knowing what he was thinking, Zeus himself let loose a powerful lightning bolt, illuminating the Populaire is all its horrifying degree. He physically flinched at the sight. 

“Please Monsieur Carré. Don't keep your guests waiting on my account.” Joanna watched as the light of hope died in his eyes. He tried to speak but failed miserably and eventually decided on tipping his hat goodnight and shakily making his way to the car that had been waiting for them. She didn’t stay to watch them drive off, immediately spinning around to unlock the door then bolting inside. She slammed the door closed and with a heavy sigh, leaned back. 

The opera’s darkness welcomed her, curling around her senses and cooling her hot skin with its chill. It was darker now that the storm had fully blocked out any and all light. The whole place was now the back rooms - unexplored and unimaginable night. When she had control over her raging pulse, Joanna pulled out her phone and slowly began her descent into the Populaire.

It took longer than usual for Joanna to reach the stage, despite her having daily experience. At the fall of night the interior layout of the building changed; stairs shifted places, doorways grew wider and more oppressive and hallways stretched on into eternity. Even the statues, whose eyes Joanna knew were watching her, had developed malicious expressions. Their hands no longer held flutes and harps but rather nooses and claws. This home she had accustomed herself into felt as forgein and dangerous as a morgue. She did not belong here.

By the time she had gotten to the radio, she almost regretted shoving Carré's offer back into his face. Perhaps she would have had fun tonight. Anything was better than this collapsing cold akin to hell. The only source of human comfort to Joanna was the melodic piano spewing forth from the radio. Her fingers froze over the button, unable to carry out the task of switching it off. It occurred to her then that she was reliving this moment. Déjà vu was no stranger to Joanna but at this moment it greeted her like an old friend. She had done this before. She had turned off the radio before she left. But.. how then had it turned itself back on? 

There were now two egregious reasons as to not turn off the radio; one being that she did not want to be alone in this dark place and two being that she did not want to be alone with _him._

Without thinking, however, her thumb flicked the switch and the world fell into an enormous silence. The pushing of the wind and rain outside was barely audible over the impressive stillness of the shadows around her. It all felt insignificant to the authority of the opera house. And to the breathing of the person to her right. 

She dared not move. Dared not even to turn around for fear of embarrassing herself. She did not want to show him any of her panic - she was scared, of course. But not of him. She was scared of the idea of him - the build up to his eventual introduction, all the fluff that accompanied his title, blocked her sense of judgement. Her mind ran around itself. If she is to die then so be it, but she would do it with dignity and grace.

“Thank you.” Her English voice betrayed her. It was high-pitched and scratchy and luckily when she mentally smacked herself for reverting back to her default but forgein language, she had a chance to re-do her appeal. 

“Thank you.” Joanna’s voice was stronger now. It held itself with pride and strongly made its claim against the night. She anchored to her own noise and from it, grew her courage. “You turned on the radio, yes?” No reply. Not even an exhale of acknowledgement. “You saved me out there. I really did not wish to go-"

“Why are you still here?” A voice, as deep as any pit in Hell and as smooth as melting ice, echoed from the person behind her. She jumped at the noise, completely unprepared for the Ghost to actually answer her so openly. She took a minute to calm her hammering heart, so loud she was sure he could hear it.

“Well,” She regretted her words before even saying them aloud - her mother always did warn her that she was a reckless girl. “It is raining outside. I cannot walk at night in a storm like this.”

“Do not play coy.” He spoke again; although she had heard him before, this second utterance fully solidified his existence. Whatever he was; ghost, phantom, man, demon - he was real. And he was talking to her. “Why are you still here, in my Opera house?” His words caught her off guard - ‘ _his opera house’_?

“I work here Monsieur.” Her pace picked up. It was easier to answer questions than to derive a conversation from nothing. “I have come to save the Popularie from being forgotten. It is a wonderful place and deserves to be saved.” The man did not answer right away, instead allowed her words to marinate in the silence.

“The Popularie does not wish to be saved. Leave us alone.” His audacity punched Joanna hard in the gut. Who was this royal _‘we’_ he had equipped? To speak so boldly over matters that frankly, did not and should not concern him infuriated her. Here was another man pretending to claim he knew of her business. She could not contain the exasperated huff that filtered out her mouth.

“I don’t think that decision is entirely up to you, Monsieur.” She put her hands on her hips. “Do you speak for the hundreds of people who painstakingly crafted this place? Under all this dust is genuine love for the art of creativity and human imagination. Things like these deserve a chance to be immortalized.” Through the darkness Joanna smiled, her head lifting to the Ghost’s presumed position behind her. “There is something worth saving here.” 

“And have you found such commodities, Mademoiselle?” The voice had changed places and now called from somewhere to the right of Joanna. A part of her considered raising her phone light to expose this pretentious man but was quickly snuffed out by her greater ego. This ghost presented himself as a moth to her ears - the slightest backlash and she may lose him forever. Joanna had to tread carefully and play by his rules. She’d let him sit in his comfortable darkness for the time being. 

“Not yet. But I will. You can bet on that.” Where this palpable enthusiasm came from, Joanna did not know. Deep down, she wasn’t as sure as she outwardly portrayed. It was a blind gamble at this point. But maybe one that she could shift to be more in her favour. 

“Say, Monsieur,” Her lack of sight did not hinder her charming grin, Joanna turning the charismatic factor up 10 notches and sweetening her voice. “Since we are on much friendlier terms now, why don’t we make a deal?” His silence told her to continue. “This is your domain and I'm sure you know everything about this fine Opera house. But as lovely as this place is, it is deathly quiet. I will bring you music, all the songs I can get my hands on if you trade with me-” her mind blanked; treasures? Paintings? Old costumes? “Anything Monsieur. Anything. Just point me in the right direction.” Joanna’s fumes sizzled out, she really just needed something. The Ghost stayed silent - if Joanna concentrated she could just make out his pattering feet through the overbearing ambience. He was fidgeting, she smirked, he was contemplating her offer.

“The music that spews from that horrible noise box is dastardly. I’d sooner cut my ears off than listen to another rendition of butchered Mozart.” The Ghost spat. She couldn’t agree more.

“At least its noise. This place is like a tomb.” She sighed. It was like speaking to a child, self-entitled and pompous and to a degree - annoying. Through this, had the Ghost not had his velvet hiss of a voice, nor the careful articulation of his words, this situation may have been more dangerous. Of course, he could always turn the tables at any point, but the impression Joanna got was that he, if anything, was a gentleman. A somewhat civilized man who, although rocked back and forth on her offers, considered her to be worth contemplation. If he was a demon, he was no mere creature of the night. Instead one of a higher priority, one who talks and governs people with bargains and words. He had given her nothing to fear as of yet.

“You will also have my company, Monsieur.” Joanna broke the stillness that had accumulated around them like dust on an out-of-reach bookshelf. “I have been told I am quite the conversationalist.” A deep, distorted laugh echoed the stage, sending shivers up Joanna’s spine. His voice, deadly as poison, would haunt her long after she has left France and returned home. The way he spoke burned itself into her mind leaving scars that she will carry for the rest of her life. She resented him for having that kind of power over her.

“Despite what your compatriots may have told you, Mademoiselle, your company is not worth that much. Especially to someone by the likes of me.” She felt that resentment rear up in her chest but she reined it back. She had to play her cards right - any man inflated with misdirected influence could be swayed. 

“We won’t have to speak.” Joanna shrugged. “It must be very lonely here.” Suddenly loud footsteps rushed over to her and Joanna felt a presence build-up behind her. He loomed over, oppressive and large, his height an impossible quantity. He consumed her. But she did not crumble, did not turn to face him. Only offered him the chance to speak.

“Do not speak as if you know me! You know nothing.” His raised voice shook the very ground Joanna stood on. He tore through the world like an earthquake, leaving the night shaking in his wake. She remained undeterred - this was the final test.

“I did not assume anything of you Monsieur. I only made an observation about the house.” How he reacted now would determine if Joanna truly was talking to a wild, vengeful spirit or someone capable of reason and equal exchange. Perhaps if she played it up a little more, “Forgive me.” The key turned and the door clicked. Joanna felt him ease off slightly, the monstrous force standing behind her edging off and slowly stepping back. Well done, she praised herself. 

The Ghost retread back into the darkness, his eyes never leaving the woman's frame. How peculiar she was. Confident even in the grasp of Hell.

“Tell me,” He asked, his tone much lighter and oddly inquisitive when compared to what it was just moments before. “Why did you not go with that man?” It sounded like a stupid question and the man inwardly cringed. He had no right to ask this strange woman such personal questions but then again, she had no right to be in his domain.

“I didn’t think that is any of your business Monsieur.” Joanna answered, turning her nose up in displeasure. She too realized that the question was one of informality. “But if you are desperate for an answer, I will just say that I do not appreciate anyone who assumes to know what is best for me.” The Ghost seemed pleased with this, almost amused by her righteous voice and indignant poster. 

“Are all women like you these days?” The question slipped out in the most awkward fashion. It had been so long since last the Ghost had a conversation that he was unpracticed. He had forgotten his table manners. Joanna scoffed. Her answer radiated off her shaking head, her disdain for his mockery evident in her tone.

“If you mean that women are autonomous and not willing to put up with -,” Joanna bit her tongue. She had to remember she was speaking to a very old man, someone from the late 1870s. The word _crap_ would not bode well in her image. “- unpleasantries, then you are correct.” His amusement only doubled at her response. A new feeling also swelled in his throat that made his momentary entertainment taste bitter.

“What year is it?” His voice was now a cool whisper, a desperate veil over a sad mind. Joanna could feel pain in his words and realized that if this ghost was truly of the 19th century then he is, indeed, very old. The gravity of his predicament coiled itself around her brain - so long has he been in the dark. 

“It is the 21st century, Monsieur. You have been here for over 140 years.” The opera house silence carried with it a deep sense of melancholy, a swirling void of inescapable anguish. It sprang forth from him, Joanna noted, everything around was connected to him in some unexplainable way. He had made this his tomb. And now felt the full, unbridled weight of his decision. Joanna longed to learn of how exactly this Ghost had come to be, what was his life like? What happened to the Populaire? These intriguing snakes bit at her mouth, urging her to stop wasting time trying to butter him up and just get to the point. But something about the way the darkness bent and moped at the news of the turning of the years, made Joanna resist. She also did not want to be rude to her host. She would ask her questions in due time. 

Eventually, the Ghost spoke. “You have been very generous in indulging me with my questions.” Joanna heard fabric shuffle and assumed that meant he was bowing. “I thank you.” Outside, thunder rumbled. It must be the peak of the storm if its ferocity was permeating through the Popularie's walls and to her ears. The momentary lightning flash barely offered Joanna anything to look at. Her turning head, however, did make the Ghost chuckle.

“This storm is most unfavourable for a lady to walk in. Even if that lady is one as sovereign as yourself.” Joanna took his compliment with a grain of salt - it was not very flattering a comment when paired with his tone. “Allow me to house you for the night. I have a private room with a bed. While you rest I will consider your offer and give my answer on the morrow.” Her heart perked at his sentiment and at the thought of seeing a bedroom. There was no mention of anything as homely as a bedroom on her map. Her interest tickled, Joanna nodded her consent. She could practically feel his satisfied smile. 

“Then please, follow the light.” At his command, warm yellow light sprang into life. It cascaded out of the left side exit at the other end of the theatre and beckoned for Joanna to follow. She did so willingly, not bothering to ask how exactly the man standing literally next to her could command light from across the room. She went to it and turned down the corridor. To her amazement, the light had moved down to the hall to another doorway.

She followed her ghostly lead through hallways and passed doors she hadn't seen before. The light, which was golden like that of a candle, flickered around the darkness, calling to her like a lighthouse to a lost ship. It evaded her however, moving just fast enough to always be around corners and out of her direct sight. All she had to go off of was its haze of warmth.

Eventually, the light stopped and pushed open a chipped, crimson door. Joanna went after it and found herself in the most beautiful room. The walls were cream and pink, aligned with the most exquisite oil paintings and mirrors. There were a dresser and a centre table all of which were swarmed with dead roses. Joanna gasped at the sight. Though the flowers' youthful elegance had faded long ago, she still enjoyed their after image - in death they remained frozen in grace. In the corner of the room was a large bed, just as the Ghost had promised. With the light, which was indeed a candle, fixated on the dresser Joanna bathed in its light. Even a short time in the darkness left her feeling weak and uncertain about reality. How on Earth did the Ghost manage 140 years of this isolation?

At her curious question, she remembered the man and slowly scanned the room for any physical sign of him. She came up empty handed but though there was no image of a man with her she knew he was still there - she could feel him.

“Thank you, Monsieur. This is perfect.” She said, walking over to the bed and examining its old linen. While the material was soft and the pattern extraordinary with fine detail, she felt worry creep into her consciousness. She prayed that no bugs had infiltrated the blankets and pillows. 

“Do not worry.” He resonated from behind her, watching her as she smoothed over the fabric. “No insects live here. Not even rats dare to enter.” Joanna numbly nodded to herself, too engrossed in the discovery to offer him a proper show of gratitude. While she welcomed the light, Joanna knew her friend did not. She decided not to seize the opportunity and sneak a peak but instead agreed to let him reveal himself when he was comfortable. She did not wish to seem rude. 

As the tension faded and the bed whined for Joanna to rest, a surprise visitor entered the room. Deuteronomy meowed his arrival and strolled over to the bed where he jumped up and purred. Joanna laughed and patted the cat you gave her the most _‘I knew you’d be back’_ look she had ever seen.

“I see that you have company.” The Ghost commented with an impish jeer to his words. “And with that, I will leave you. Goodnight.” She heard feet shuffling and reacting quickly said,

“Wait,” Joanna stood and half-way looked behind her - enough of a head tilt to tell the Ghost that she wanted his attention but dared not gaze. “I… I don’t even know your name. I am Joanna Cook. I would offer you my hand but…” Her implication struck home and the Ghost acknowledged her polite introduction. He felt somewhat ashamed for not having presented himself earlier to her in a more gentlemanly fashion, but in the moment of confrontation, it had slipped his mind. At least, she did not seem bothered.

“You know my title, Mademoiselle Cook,” He tilted his head then remembered that she was not looking at him. He saw confusion dance across her features. “I am the Phantom of the Opera. But you may call me the Opera Ghost.”

There was nothing more to be said, from either ghost or girl. The entire world fell into restful silence with only the gentle hammering of distant rain and thunder for comfort. Deut had made himself home on the bed and slowly curled his tail for Joanna to join. She did so after removing her shoes and slipped into the cool material of silk and cotton. It smelt very much of old smoke and mothballs but it was warm and comfortable and Joanna could not resist the lullaby of sleep for long. She fell asleep easily and dreamt of nothing but faint orchestral music and Parisian parties. In the morning she found that the candle was burning and Deut still by her side. 


	5. The Audience Calls for Encore

He paced. Over stone floor scattered with forgotten scapes of half-composed scores, past his organ, his heart, his anchor to this reality surrounded by burning candles that stood upon centuries of wax - he paced. His hands were sweaty despite being gloved and were clasped nervously behind his back, his head lower and brow furrowed in contemplation.

Actually, no. There were no thoughts going through his head as he walked. Instead of uproarious indignation to the events he just allowed to unfold, he was strangely treated to a numb silence. The only noise that graced his mind was that of water pushing against the shore and his feet tapping in tune. It certainly was odd that what had just occurred - a most peculiar and fantastical instance but one that stirred no conflict in his brain.

When the intruder first made an entrance into the Opera house, Erik thought him a man. A very poor and strange man to be accurate. The way he walked, stunted even, up the stairs and to the stage carried the air of a naive boy fresh off the train from some distant farm place, ignorant to the harsh world yet desperate to meet it. He didn’t hold himself like a man of education or good breeding would nor did he give off the feeling of being anyone of any decent importance. Erik was preparing himself to deal with a rather nosey and stupidly courageous homeless individual. 

It was only when he moved closer did he realize, with rather a sudden surprise, that it was a woman, not a man who had so rudely entered his abode. In trousers and covered in the most vividly-colored jerseys, this woman was a toxic shock to his otherwise stagnant system. He blinked several times while he watched her navigate the opera house; surely this was a trick? Some God had finally sent down a Valkyrie of sorts to put an end to his cruel torture. Drag him down to hell where demons like him belonged. This _thing,_ that somehow presented both male and female, was no creature of his world. 

But it acted so human. She fluttered about the place upsetting dust and leaving behind her the most egregious path of destruction without a care in the world - she showed no consideration to anyone except for her own council. Whenever Erik turned to see where she had scampered off to, he most often found her either deep in internal conversation or with her nose buried in a letter or document. To him, he thought her the most oblivious and obnoxious person to ever stain the opera with her attention. 

Perhaps he was being too harsh, his judgment critical and unforgiving. If he was younger he might have given her more an opportunity to present her appeal - in all honesty, he liked people. He enjoyed his seat from the shadows as the world of other humans played around him. Oh, this one’s wife died, a pity. And this man stole money from an undisclosed relative, a real shame. It was an entertaining pass time, one that made his existence somewhat bearable. It gave him a sense of importance, he held leverage over people who didn’t know that phantoms were watching. Of course, he had steered clear from the couples who linked arms and his wandering ear never strayed too close to a forlorn-looking maidan. But the more trivial matters, he found most enlightening. Yes, maybe if he was younger he would have enjoyed eavesdropping on this woman and her many ramblings. But he was not young and his patience stretched thin even for gossip.

He had dealt with the odd trespasser before, each one either fuelled by sheepish peers or by ignorant bravery. Neither type of person stayed for more than an hour. It was the Opera house itself that turned most people away. It had taken a life, albeit a dead one, and actively scared away anyone who so much as dared to look at it. He took partial credit for the solitude the building now resides in, his own feelings of wanting to never be disturbed by any living person again ebbing off into the very stone and concrete that surrounds him. It was a Hell he created and one he thought fitting for a beast such as himself.

But the girl did not turn away like so many before her. Deaf ears met the wails of the ghosts without hesitation, blind eyes saw past the Popularie’s face of evil. It was true that it wanted to be alone but it did not move against her advances. Erik was going to have to take matters into his own hands.

Rusty thoughts over out-of-use habits let him start off with something simple - spook the girl. He dropped a sand weight on stage. The sole boom drew a shriek of fright from the woman who in turn made Erik smile. Oh, how he missed these interactions, the screams from ballet girls, the gasps of gentlemen as they trembled despite their audience, the looks of bewilderment. As old ideas and methods of scaring started to come back to him, two golden eyes looked on in disappointment.

Cats were one of the very few animals Erik allowed near him. They were singular creatures content to live lonesome and as long as they never bothered him and kept the rats at bay, he could accept their proximity. The tomcat, who had most recently taken a strange liking to him, curled its tail indignantly. He judged the phantom’s actions and failed to hide his displeasure. Erik scoffed.

He went to her then, jumping down from the rafters above to the girl on stage who greeted him warmly. There was a lurch of something vile in Erik’s chest and quickly he made his leave, disgusted.

When next he came across the woman was when music played. Horrible, basic renditions of classics he had long forgotten existed. Overcome with a need to go to the source, Erik made his way to the stage and found her again working away on God knows what with a magnificent box from which music spewed. Curiosity compelled him forward despite his resistance to being seen. How long his ears had grown accustomed to silence, how long Erik had sat with nothing to appreciate. Music was his everything and being in its mediocre presence revived him slightly. He could not muster the will to leave the music box nor stage the whole day even while the repetition of songs gnawed on his inner ear. 

By the time afternoon waned and the girl became restless, the phantom found himself at a crossroads of sorts. A long-thought-dead part of him yearned over the sound of music, pining away having just been awoken, it refused to be put under lock and key again. The other half of him refused to move, to step into the light and claim existence. He toiled with himself and in the end gave way to the side that hurt the most.

Writing that letter to her was a form of acknowledgment for Erik. An acceptance that despite his best efforts, his countless nights wrapped so totally in darkness that it felt more akin to oblivion than sleep, that he was still alive. Somehow, he was still haunting the Opera house. And he, like any other human to ever walk the Earth, hungered for food. 

She didn't react the way he expected her to. Normally someone, who when confronted by an unexplainable and mysterious envelope, would gasp and look around with their face as white as snow - terrified. She only watched it curiously, picked it up, and after reading it once, scoffed and stuffed it into her pocket. He would have been more offended by her blatant lack of fear and piety had she not, the next morning, did exactly what he asked of her. 

What compelled him to stare out the window, a simple act he had not sought after in years, and watch plainly as the girl was greeted and guided away by a strange man, was beyond him. It was even more bizarre when he found himself, in a detached way, pitying the girl as she clearly tried, most polite, to resist the man’s advances. There was that slight backwards step of her foot that tipped off her true intentions. Here came another instance where Erik found himself without thought, without careful consideration for the consequences of his actions. Age had made him a very impulsive man which is difficult to believe when compared to what had come before. 

He turned the music box on and the girl flew back inside to switch it off. But she didn’t leave. He looked on as if seeing for the first time the brilliant climax of an Opera. Here the stakes sat high - he knew that as quite a creature as the woman was, too adverse to take on traditions and pleasantries, she would never consider him the cause of the music’s start. He just didn't give her that type of credit. But when she spoke unafraid in the darkness with a language he presumed English, Erik felt surprised. 

Her French tongue was rough and unpolished and held with it an accent he could not place. There was also the unmistakable scent of a woman he did not know - she spoke like a man. Unforgiving and pointedly. But she was careful with her word choice, often stumbling over herself so as to maintain a certain aura of correctness. At least she had that decency. She gave her mind freely over topics and before he knew it, Erik was swept along with the conversation. 

It was easy to talk to her. Dialogue flowed from him like an untouched river, undamned and made even easier when she made no move to seek him out. A simple curtsy that the phantom appreciated. The talk only started to weigh on him when the current year was brought up. 

Eternity suddenly presented itself to Erik and he turned from it - it had really been over 100 years since last he had seen the light.

Of course, he was perfectly aware of the clock's careful ticking, he could feel the years pile on him but it never occurred to him how long it had really been. All those years pretending to be a ghost and now he truly was one - ironic. Something icy and heavy pushed down on his chest and Erik found that he couldn’t breathe. A moment of deep anguish replaced itself with bitter acceptance, he knew something like this would happen. It is what he deserved after all.

He didn’t exist - he never did. 

He offered the woman a bed and left her alone. Had he not been a phantom of ages past with a malicious history, Erik would have considered himself a good person for offering a complete stranger such kindness. Actually, no she was not a complete stranger. She gave him her name in exchange for the hospitality and, if he was not mistaken, her hand in familiarity. Many people had tried to swad Erik with gestures of pseudo respect and companionship in exchange for protection or wealth, but their words always wavered when faced with, well, his face. Perhaps if Joanna had turned around to see for herself the demon she was truly talking to, she would not have been so eager with her goodwill.

She was naive and though she tried to hide it, Erik could see it plastered everywhere and in everything she did. He could manipulate her, they were best when they were young and unwise, molding like wet clay in his skilled hands. But what would he have her do? Whatever could a phantom want with the living?

He had no drive and nothing to fight for. The opera was over, the orchestra departed and the curtains closed. Why could he not leave as well? As bitter and vile as he felt, how utterly cheated he considered himself, a judgemental voice in his head whispered with a snake's forked tongue that this was all he deserved. A fate worse than death - an unmoving life. He carried his chains like a tired field horse, the yolk forever grinding deeper and more savage into his already tender skin. 

No noise pervaded his head as Erik continued to pace the lake-side house. He knew what he was, what fate he had condemned himself and he most certainly knew that this girl, if given the chance to fester like a wound and sink her claws in as all women did, would cause him trouble. He didn’t want to stress over matters that frankly did not concern him - Erik just wanted to fade away.

Had God’s plan, or whatever foul and hateful deity ruled his life, involved him dissipating from the world like smoke from a candle, he would have done so years ago. He was unfortunately still alive, still aching, and, given the track record, likely to stay that way for now until the end of all times. He would be a fool to miss this opportunity.

Something had presented itself to him and, much like a starved man reached undignified for bread, he wanted to meet it. It was decided then, without fuss and all the chaos that came with prejudice, that Erik would take up the woman’s offer and allow her passage into his world. But he made it a point to keep her, and anyone else she would inevitably drag into their agreement, at a hefty arm's length. 

He would humor her but stay detached and remain a distant observer. For that was his destiny - to always be the phantom.

It was morning before Erik could even blink, and for the first time in over a century, he had a reason to go somewhere.

He was outside the dressing room within 5 minutes after 7 - a decent time for anyone to wake up, he thought to himself. Surely the girl was awake by now as well. He could take a look inside for himself, the mirrors were efficient one-way viewpoints into the going-ons within the private room but he thought against it. Best to start on a good foot rather than resort to old habits. For the time being, at least. 

He knocked once. Then twice. There was a stir from inside and he knew that he had just woken her. He allowed her a moment to settle herself in her odd surroundings then spoke loud and clear,

“It is morning Mademoiselle Cook. The storm has moved on. Time you did the same.” Though he knew that she would inevitably return either later today or tomorrow, his greeting soundly oddly like a goodbye. Now was her turn to pace endlessly until she stumbled upon her answer - would she stay despite the complete bizarre nature of the circumstance or would she flee and not have to deal with it all? Either way, Erik was content to deal with her reply.

Joanna mumbled something and after waiting another 10 minutes, finally emerged and pushed open the door, looking as if she had walked out of a war zone. Erik retreated back into the shadows, reverting to sheepish hiding at the call of sudden self-consciousness. His identity and ability to remain anonymous was an aspect he wanted to hold leverage over for as long as possible. The girl yawned and slowly turned her head around, scanning with sleep-covered eyes to try to find him in the hallway.

“I am behind you. No need to fret.” He called from his spot and was pleased to see her searching cease - she was obedient and clever to a fault. Joanna stretched and blinked.

“Good morning Monsieur…” Her morning voice faltered and spluttered into unsure territory. It was as if she did not know what to say. Had the reality of what happened finally hit her? Was she just now coming to terms with being acquainted with a ghost? Her simpleness as a creature amused him. Joanna shook her head.

“What time is it?” She didn’t wait for a reply because she quickly produced her phone and flicked it on. At the light of the screen, Erik leaned closer. Though she may be plain, she carried with her certain charms that piqued his interest. A pocket-sized lightbox, how interesting indeed. Joanna gasped at the time.

“It's so early!” She said in a tired, disbelieving voice. 

“A good time to rise.” Had Erik not spoken up, it seemed Joanna would have turned and gone back to bed. She rolled her head in protest and silently wished she had braved the storm the night before, she might have gotten wet and maybe even sick, but at least she could have slept in until her usual time. After swallowing her displeasure, she sighed and went to walk forward. Suddenly she remembered that she was in an undisclosed section of the Opera house.

“Uh… The exit?”

“Straight ahead Mademoiselle,” Erik answered, turning his head slightly to watch her reaction. There was none, of course. She went to step forward but stopped and hesitantly brought it back. He raised an eyebrow.

“Monsieur you must have a name.” This again. He rolled his eyes at her insistence to put a name to the voice. How impertinent of her, ill-mannered even. A modest woman would have dropped the subject the moment he expressed his disdain. Perhaps she just required another reminder.

“I have told you my name. Use it.”

“Oh but that's not a name. Not a real one! It's more of a,” she waved a hand as if calling for the words to come to her, “a title.” Joanna finished triumphantly. When Erik did not answer right away she continued, “I could give you one. I am very good at giving names.”

“So the cat has told me.” Finally, he replied, his tone filled with mockery. Joanna scoffed, unscathed by his harsher words.

“He did? He’s never spoken a word to me before.” Had Erik not been on his utmost guard he would have slipped and let loose the tiniest of laughs. More one of unbelieving than of actual sincerity. But he was vigil over himself around the girl, commanding his actions in the most strict manner. He would not fall for her smooth words and idiotic comments.

“You do not listen.” He pushed forward, using the presence he possessed as an incentive for Joanna to move. An ordinary person would have flinched in his advance, she only obliged and started leaving. “Call me The Phantom of the Opera. Or call me nothing at all.” She mulled over his demand in her mouth, a hum resonating from the gears turning in her head.

“Very well, Monsieur. Have it your way.” Her pace livened and she eagerly made her way down the hall while Erik looked on. It sounded as if it pained her to give in so easily to him. At the end of the corridor, she suddenly stopped and tilted her ear to the ghost. While her eyes remained unfocused and avoided his area, her attention struck clearly to him alone. He noticed the slightest upturn at the corner of her mouth.

“I take it that you have considered my offer.” He did not feel the need to verbally answer, his choice perfectly understandable regardless of its physical manifestation through words. It was. She faced the doorway with a sudden perk of her poster. “I look forward to our next meeting then, Monsieur Phantom.” With that, she was gone. 

Light retreated and the world once again caves in on him. He questioned for a moment if it had all been real - had what he just experienced somehow been a trick played by a cruel old mind? He doubted these pretentious ideas almost as soon as they formed, snubbing the buds before they had the chance to even sprout. His mind was nowhere near creative enough to wish to life a woman as odd, dull, and strange as Joanna. For now, there was no more dwelling on the past, what would happen will happen and he will watch it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for making it to chapter 5! wow can't believe I, myself, have written thus far as well. it seems weird to write this, I hope I do him some justice. please remember to be gentle when you tear me to shreds, I am only learning and this is my interruption of the character. regardless of if it's factual correctness or a decent representation, I write to have fun and hopefully produce something that at least someone will enjoy.


	6. A Play in Four Acts

The early morning consisted of a very disgruntled and disorientated Joanna stumbling into the foyer of the hotel, waving a hand at the receptionist who stared in confusion, then making her way haphazardly to her room. She freed herself from her bags and from her clothes that still carried the smell of old silk and dust. Thereafter she spent the next hours catching up on her much needed and missed rest. When her eyes finally reopened several hours later, seeing that the sun was high in the sky and the sound of people filtered in through her window, the waves crashed in.

She bolted upright in her bed, her head hot and bursting with conflicting voices. The previous nights and waking mornings events replaying over and over again like a record stuck on repeat. The voice, a man's voice, as real and potent as the night itself had conversed with her. They spoke as if acquainted, going back and forth as easy as a tennis player would a ball. She couldn’t remember if she was scared or not, one would assume that anyone in her position would have at least been somewhat on edge. 

It all felt as if part of a fantastical dream - was this what the characters in Shakespeare's _Midsummer_ experienced when they awoke from their adventures in the fairies’ woods? She seemed fictional, reminiscing on the conversations with a critical mind half pinning it all on her own imagination going wild and taking creative credibility. She rolled out of her nest of pillows and saw before her the piles of clothes left untouched on the floor. Like a villain it mocked her, laughing at the idea of doubting what had happened. It was not a dream - damn.

The second part of the day followed Joanna as she readied herself as if it was like any other ordinary day. She cleaned herself up and sought after breakfast in the cafeteria only to find that she had just missed the breakfast rush. The more familiar hotel staff passed Joanna a quizzical look, turning their heads as she walked by but none dared to ask the question that glinted in all their wandering eyes - her business was her own and they knew better than to pry. 

She stopped on her way to the Opera house at the little bakery where she purchased her on-the-go meal, a strawberry-filled croissant sided with a small coffee. Monsieur Lafitte greeted her warmly with his million-dollar smile and spoke very briefly of the weather and her job, asking how she was enjoying herself. It seemed that the sun drove away his fears of the Phantom of the Opera and gave him feigned courage to speak freely - through his words still sat behind guarded teeth. She mused herself with his pretend concern and within 5 minutes past 10, Joanna had found herself back in the jaws of the Populaire. 

It was a rush. Everything went by in a blur. Joanna was being pulled as if by a notorious riptide, dragging her by the feet out to sea where she would lose herself and drown. Though she knew of what lay ahead, what murky waters swirled below her next step, Joanna paused only for one moment. Then opened the door. 

The third act sees Joanna fluttering between stage and dressing room. Like a worker-ant she scavenged through the room hunting for anything of interest which, she thanked God, there was plenty of. A fabulous and massive oil painting of the most stern-looking woman Joanna had ever laid her eyes upon adorned the right wall; in the dressing table's draws were letters and scraps of old music sheets each inscribed with ancient handwriting of people long-gone, a singer's personal notes she assumed. Joanna had so consumed herself in work and thoughts that she barely noticed when the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees or when the candles, her only light source, flickered. It was only when the Phantom spoke that Joanna knew he was there. She jumped at his sound.

“Mademoiselle Cook.”

“Oh! Monsieur Phantom!” Joanna gushed, a playful hand placed over her beating heart. “You startled me.” She saved time and energy not searching him out amongst the mess of old antiques by remembering that he did not wish to be found. Instead, she kept her eyes focused on her work and hands and spoke only over her shoulder, an odd occurrence indeed but not one she found too impossible to perform. It was like talking on the phone or to an imaginary friend - made conversation much less taxing on her psyche. The Phantom took a moment to answer.

“You have returned sooner than expected.” He sounded unsure, tiptoeing his words around an unseen something, lacking the bounce and gusto of the previous night. Perhaps the sun really did affect the Phantom’s potency and courage. Or maybe she was only imagining his daylight stupor, finding faults when there were none. 

“I could not sleep,” Joanna spoke louder, picking up where he wavered. She offered herself to him like a walking stick, a driving broad from which he could take off from. “Not with all this!” She gestured around the room. His gaze followed hers, although without the haze of youthful exuberance. He only saw dusty couches and tattered furniture. Before he could comment on what exactly Joanna was referring to, she had darted across the room and stood before the commanding oil painting.

“Now that you are here, Monsieur, I must ask,” She leaned closer and breathed on the words painted on the bottom right-hand corner. “Who is this? It is labelled as “ _Portrait of La Carlotta”_ but beyond that, I know nothing. It is the most wonderful painting!” Joanna practically heard the Phantom scoff at the mention of the woman’s name.

“A most-horrible diva. A foul woman with an even fouler voice to match.”

“You do not speak fondly of her,” Joanna couldn’t stop the hiccup of bumptiousness in her voice, a sly hand placed sheepishly over her lips as if to hide away her grin, “I assume you didn’t like her.”

“Not at all.” He answered without hesitation, earning a snicker from the girl for his straight-forwardness. “She was the leading soprano for 5 long and painful seasons. Years that have ruined me.” Joanna heard him let out a sigh of annoyance - clearly, he did not like even talking about the singer. “She had quite a reputation. I am surprised you do not know of her. Though, I do envy your ignorance.” 

Joanna composed herself, eyes lingering in the beautiful brush-strokes of the woman's dramatic and floor-sweeping dress, focusing rather on the mastery of the craft than its subject, “I do not know anything of this Opera house, Monsieur. Not of its history, of its people, not even its origins. There simply is nothing to be found. It is like it never existed.” This brought about great silence from the Phantom which Joanna had grown somewhat accustomed to and rather expected - it must be a great shock to find out so suddenly that the world had moved on and left you in the dust. She offered the quiet to him without expectation, allowing for him to gnaw and digest her words and aline his thoughts accordingly. It was the least she could do. At last, he spoke,

“I am not a history teacher.” He was stern now, and incredibly so. His individual words were sharp and pointed and hurt with their decisiveness. If Joanna didn’t know better, she would think that he was hurt. Maybe even offended. It sounded like a refusal to a question Joanna had yet to ask.

“Never assumed you were one, Monsieur.” She answered slowly, her attention drifting between painting and speaker - though she yearned for answers, to reach into the horse's mouth and pull from it, her desires, she felt obligated to play his little game. He jested with her, conversing in such a way that although remained aloof and polite, always rang with undertones of sarcasm. He remained two steps behind her. 

“Would you be so kind,” Joanna rose from her kneeling position and cocked her head at the painting, with eyes looking forward yet her attention drifting to the Phantom behind, “As to indulge me in a game?” She heard him shuffle in response.

“Oh, it would be an easy game. And one that requires no physical exertion.” Again he stayed sitting in his silence, waiting for her to fully make her appeal before, inevitably, shutting her down. What kind of man did she take him for? To give in to such childish antics. And what woman was she to want to take part in the same? He knew her to be strange but never as to go this far. “20 questions. Have you heard of it?” She imagined him shaking his head in dismissal when, in actuality, he did not even flinch.

“The game is simple,” Joanna, with her head and gaze lowered to the Persian rug beneath her feet, walked over to the pile of letters she had received from the dressing-table, all stacked neatly in a tower, “I ask you a question. Then you ask me and we go back and forth until 20 questions have been asked. Then,” she grabbed the papers and shuffled them in an effort to look busy and in-charge of the situation, “We go on with our separate lives. Sounds good?” His inactiveness was starting to wear on Joanna’s confidence. Her request was not one that seemed too ridiculous, at least to her, and she knew that he could not resist. 

Joanna, if anything, was good at noticing small things. She particularly noticed how the Phantom always lingered closer when she spoke of the new world; how his voice, being the only thing to go off of, earned a spark of enthusiasm whenever she produced her phone or mentioned the radio. He, if anything, was a man of intrigue. Joanna felt hunger come from him, not just for music but for knowledge and science - he came to her as the image of a starved man. So she appealed to him as someone who could offer him food which was, in all honesty, the truth. She hungered for information about the Opera house and he, the outside world. She presented her case to his better half in order to appease her own.

“I am not a history teacher. Nor a child.” He repeated, sounding defensive but still listening, one ear turned away disgusted and the other firmly placed on her response.

“It is not really a game, Monsieur Phantom. I'm only calling it that to get you to join me. And if that is not working then I don’t know what will.” She sighed and slowly brought up her eyes to look at herself in the clouded mirror. Dark circles under her eyes, hair limp and unimpressive framed her round face. She looked old and tired and desperate for sleep. But she was not ready to just throw in the towel just yet. “But I must say, I will only ask short questions. Simple, basic. It would cost you nothing to play.” Eternity yawned in between her last words and his, the silence so thick and complete it seemed an injustice to break. 

“Ladies first.” The Phantom finally spoke, sounding a lot closer to her, reassuring Joanna that she had somehow, miraculously, won him over. She could not dampen the smile that flushed her face.

The 20 questions blew by like wind through a tree-less desert – without a fuss and with barely any impact. Joanna’s questions focused mainly on the Populaire itself, asking who built it, when, and why. True to her word, her inquiries were painfully short and were answered in the same manner. She made sure, however, to stay as neutral as possible, deciding to move around topics like the exact cause of the Opera’s closing and the horrific fire that accompanied it and avoided anything to do with particular and individual names. She had considered it but chose rather to ease into the obviously touchier subjects once she had climbed a little more. Cunning and careful and slow wins the race.

But as she asked more, the Phantom, Joanna mused, grew more into himself whenever she’d prod him for specific details on certain events. He was indeed a very intelligent man, well-versed in architecture and on many other things that took the girl by intriguing surprise. His already commanding and nightmarish voice crescendo’ ed into a most intoxicating sound somehow drawing her even deeper into his words. The snake that tempted Eve could only wish to have a voice half as charming and wonderful as the man. He spoke boldly and told stories of people and their happenings with surprising and infectious vigor, engrossing her in his story as easily as a movie in a blacked-out cinema would. He drowned everything out. His word choice was lush and expressed a universe Joanna had never considered before yet suddenly longed to join. He made her ache for more and often resulted in Joanna closing her eyes to try better imagine what he spoke of.

The Phantom's questions, in turn, were more sporadic than hers, jumping from topic to topic without much thought or connection. At first, he asked her very mundane things, like where she was from and the happenstance that led to her arriving in France. All these singular questions met with very singular answers. Eventually, he grew brave and started asking the real, juicy fixtures. How modern society worked, how music and art had survived and evolved with people, and how radios worked. Her most favorite interaction was his, “Why do women wear trousers?”

“Am I not allowed to, Monsieur?” She inclined an eyebrow as if daring him to try.

“I have only ever known it as a man’s item.” He indignantly replied, his nose stuck pointedly in the air. Joanna felt a rage burst inside her, not an uncommon anger but one she bitterly did not enjoy nor cared to entertain.

“Modern society has no dictation over who wears what these days. I am a person and what I decide to adorn on my own body is of no concern of yours.” She tilted her head again, offering him another chance to back down. He waited for a moment.

“Of course. It was just a surprise to me.” He sounded put-out slightly like she had taken out the rug from underneath him. Although she relished in her successful spitting on the misogyny, Joanna eased herself down and gave him her sympathy. She could not expect this old-timer to fully abandon the morals and beliefs he grew up in such a short period. She had to work slowly and the fact that he genuinely sounded remorseful gave her hope that he would be willing to hear her out.

“They are the most comfortable working clothes, Monsieur Phantom. Can you really blame me for wanting to wear them?” She played it off as a joke. The Phantom appreciated her forgiveness, albeit rather spiteful and aggressive, from his position behind the two-way mirror. These modern women were certainly anything but the dainty females of his time. They were more like wild young boys, prancing ponies, however, spoke like aged matriarchs. Though naïve, Joanna knew of her place and was not one he could easily sway. He had walked into a strange new world and instead of being shoved back into the corner for his lack of appropriate knowledge, she extended her hand as guidance. He was grateful and made a mental note to be more careful of his words around her.

“They are, Mademoiselle.” The conversation ended there and drifted back into the rhyme of question and answer with each party feeling somewhat more comfortable with the other.

Joanna neared her last question before she even realized it - the fourth act of the day closing in around her. She sat lazily on the dirty-red couch adjacent to the mirror, drenched in old pillows and smells. She had been smiling while mesmerized in one of the Phantom’s many tangents that somehow spewed from a long-forgotten question. Though it was her to answer his inquiry, he had somehow taken over the conversation and directed back onto himself. He would often get side-tracked, a trait that Joanna cared not to fight. If it meant she learned more about the Populaire, then she would attend his endless ramblings for as long as necessary. Besides, by the way he spoke, Joanna almost did not have a choice to resist.

“Your turn, Mademoiselle Cook.” The Phantom ripped Joanna from her blissful stupor with his sudden breaking of the pace. She jolted awake, bringing her head out of the pillows embrace and blinking into the fading light.

“It’s Joanna. Please.” She had been trying to persuade him to use her first name for the duration of the game but every time the Phantom would shut her down. He was a gentleman - it simply went against him to call a lady by such a personal title.

Now facing the last question, Joanna froze. There were still so many things left to ask, so many burning mysteries that each begged and clawed at her heart in need of clarity and salvation. But through the fire, a single question was produced. A most selfish thing, childish. And one she could not resist in toying with. Joanna opened her right hand and stuck it out before her.

“Would you shake my hand?” Expected silence. She counted to 10 then spoke again. “It is a very simple request. C’mon, I’m sure you’ve shaken many hands before. This one ain’t gonna kill you.” Still the deafening muteness. “I’ll even make it easier for you,” Joanna raised her other hand and went to cover her eyes with it, “Now I still won’t know what you look like but I will know that you are most definitely real,” Joanna predicted there to be a far longer gap of nothing before his answer but was astonished when the candles on the far table spontaneously blew out.

Startled, she spun around to face them, in the moment of panic dropping her hands and preparing to get up. However, the sound of metal and wood sliding over the floor forced her to cease all her actions and remain perfectly still. Through the darkness, something manifested before her very eyes – a sleek, black glove connected to an arm that blended with the night effortlessly. She watched in a state of awe as it reached out and took her own hand with grace and barely any noise. It enveloped hers, being so much bigger she was reduced to a fumbling child gazing at the beast’s paw.

He wanted to be cheeky and kiss her hand, tease her that same way she had been doing so the whole day. But the Phantom decided to abide by her request and gave Joanna the plainest and most ordinary shake, not even bothering to move his hand in the typical handshake motion but instead, just hold it. When she squeezed, feeling his firmness resist her as another person would and not disintegrate at her touch much like an apparition, he applied pressure back, concurring with her realization – Yes, he was, indeed, real.

Joanna raised her eyes, following what she assumed to be his arm, and caught sight of his face. Or rather, half his face. A blistering white that stuck out even in the total blackness. She was transfixed upon its features; her eyes lingered over its arched eyebrow, the hollow eye, its keen cheekbone, and its pristinely sharp nose. It looked sculpted as if by the Gods – a most perfect masculine face. Unfortunately, before she could fully commit it to memory, the Phantom sank back into unrecognizable darkness and within seconds, the candles burst into new life.

Her confused and bewildered expression now illuminated, made the Phantom wish he had carried out his other plan. She looked positively wretched sitting on the couch having merely touched him – imagine the utter turmoil he would have caused in her if he had kissed her hand! Oh, how fun.

“And how was that, Mademoiselle? To your liking?” The Phantom called clearly from behind the mirror, unmasked delight evident in his voice. Joanna had lost, he had somehow managed to spook her and stir some semblance of an uncontrollable reaction. He had reduced her to a blubbering idiot. It was incredibly fleeting however and with a blink of her eye, Joanna had regained herself. His victory was short-lived but the spoils had yet to be enjoyed. She stretched and stood up.

“It was satisfactory at best.” She mumbled with enforced indifference, turning her head away from his regard, and walked over to retrieve the dressing table’s letters. “I suppose I should be leaving now. Though your hospitality was impeccable last night, I do not wish to overstep my welcome and ask for it again.” She spun around on her heels and bowed to where she guessed the Phantom to be hiding, “Good night Monsieur Phantom and thank you for today. It has been most enlightening.”

As she turned to leave, hand gracing the cool brass of the door handle, the Phantom spoke up, still riding the high of his win over her, “Do not forget your side of the deal, Mademoiselle Cook. I expect new music tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Joanna tossed her reply carelessly over her shoulder, desperate to leave and find some private place to scold herself for allowing the Opera Ghost to have such a strong effect over her. With a final nod, she opened the door and made her way out of the Opera house and to her calling bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was weird, apologies. anywho, I just wanted to say a huge THANK YOu to everyone who has bothered to even read this story as well as like it and comment! validation, even minor, is so appreciated!! that... sounds so shallow. hope you enjoyed this story so far! I know I have, even if it is bad at some points


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